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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26152540">Tomorrow Never Knows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/skepticalsapphic/pseuds/skepticalsapphic'>skepticalsapphic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Devil Wears Prada (2006)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Femslash, Older Woman/Younger Woman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:13:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,521</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26152540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/skepticalsapphic/pseuds/skepticalsapphic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, instead of leaving Miranda that fateful day in Paris, Andy had realized she was in love with her?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>210</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A piece from Andy's POV, that I've written after a good 13+ year hiatus from the DWP fandom (the last time I wrote for DWP the Livejournal group was still thriving- may Telanu live forever)</p><p>I already have 10,000 words written, and am writing every other day, so don't fear abandonment</p><p>Hoping to get my feet wet again</p><p>Hoping to thrum up the fandom again</p><p>Hoping this is decent, I'm wanting to write a lot more for this fandom if you'll have me</p><p>pssssst: I could use some betas (you can find me on twitter @sapphicstranger)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh don’t be ridiculous Andrea, everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be <em>us</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Us.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Oh. Like a lightbulb.</p><p> </p><p><em>Us. </em>She said <em>us. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Since when was <em>I</em> in the <em>us</em>? And why was the knowledge that Miranda considered me to be part of an <em>us </em>causing a warm, glowy rush to bloom outwards from the center of my body?</p><p> </p><p>Andy Sachs? Gangly and awkward but somehow still fat Andy Sachs? Andy Sachs who very nearly ended up at Auto Universe and married to a sweaty, unshaven chef?</p><p> </p><p>That Andy Sachs?</p><p> </p><p>In an <em>us </em>with Miranda Priestly, the present and premier Editor-in-Chief of Runway magazine?</p><p> </p><p>No, it wasn’t possible. Not the very same Andy Sachs who had moments prior objected to the very idea that she could want to be like Miranda.</p><p> </p><p>But, <em>oh.</em></p><p> </p><p>Being like someone isn’t the same as being <em>with </em>someone. In an <em>us</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, the two often do go hand-in-hand. The Venn diagram of being like someone and being with someone has quite the overlap, but they don’t have to be connected. Just moments ago I had been considering leaving her side for good. I thought that I was becoming like Miranda- and not just like her, too much like her; a carbon copy of all of her worst traits. I thought that was inevitable if I stayed at Runway- that eventually I would morph into one of the many Emilys that clack around the building night and noon, content to aspire to be Miranda and fail day in and day out to actually rise to the occasion.</p><p> </p><p>Never once did I consider how being like Miranda might also mean that I would be <em>with </em>Miranda. And, oh god, why did that thought make me blush? <em>She </em>certainly wouldn’t mean it that way. No, Miranda Priestly’s <em>us </em>with Andrea Sachs would be a strictly platonic <em>us. </em>I would be <em>with </em>her in the strictest sense that we were a part of the same world, sharing not only an office space but a space in society. Where more opportunities like Paris, where Miranda and I rubbed shoulders in a social setting, could occur. But even that, just the opportunity to see her vulnerable and alone again the way I had in her hotel room, was enough to flutter my heart. And why did it do that? Why did the knowledge that Miranda in some way considered us, well, <em>us</em> make my stomach do flip flops and circles? Why, even now as I follow behind her through the crowd of paparazzi, do I stay so closely beside her? How is it that one minute I was considering abandoning my job and, consequently, Miranda, and now, just moments later, I’m ready to throw myself back into it full force and give her my undivided attention?</p><p> </p><p><em>Oh</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Shit.</p><p> </p><p>Shit, oh <em>shit</em>!</p><p> </p><p>No no no no no no no, that’s not it. That cannot possibly be it. There is not even the slightest of minute possibilities. It isn’t possible. It’s non-possible. Impossible.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“The person whose calls you always take- that’s the relationship you’re in. I hope you two are very happy together.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Shit.</p><p> </p><p>Fucking Nate.</p><p> </p><p>How did he see it before I did?</p><p> </p><p>But that was it- the proverbial elephant in the room- that I had previously been completely unaware of even though now I feel it sitting on my chest.</p><p> </p><p>I was in love with Miranda.</p><p> </p><p>How had I been so oblivious? Why else would I slave myself away to an absurdly stressful job I cared nothing about? Not for some mediocre promise of a glorified glowing recommendation letter at the end of a year, no.  Perhaps at the beginning, sure, it made sense. I had just graduated, moved to New York, and embarked on a new life that needed funding, stat. We were nearing a year deep now, though, and the thought of leaving Runway hadn’t crossed my mind until today. I wanted to be there, and now I knew why. All of those efforts I made towards improving myself and doing better at my job had been for her approval, and I had received it. How is it that I didn’t see then that it wasn’t the approval of my boss that I was seeking, but <em>Miranda’s </em>approval, specifically? I wouldn’t have wasted that much effort on just anyone. Miranda was special. Miranda had always been special. Everyone else lets her get away with having an attitude and deriding them constantly because they love fashion and want to work at Runway. I do it because she’s special. I let her get away with things I wouldn’t let anyone else get away with. Because I love her.</p><p> </p><p>“Andrea!”</p><p>Shit.</p><p> </p><p>My head snapped to attention. I realized I had been staring off into space as we moved through the crowd inside, lost in thought about my Miranda problem, and had missed her introducing me to one of the designers. I corrected myself immediately and shook his hand, mumbling niceties and trying to save face. Miranda eyed me curiously, but she didn’t seem anything beyond mildly annoyed that I had been slow to respond and so I thanked my lucky stars and put myself in check. Miranda feelings and Miranda problems could wait, lest they multiply.</p><p> </p><p>I managed to steel myself well enough to get through the rest of the day, suppressing all of the new and interesting emotions that were provoked by being near Miranda after The Realization. I couldn’t risk allowing my newly identified feelings to negatively impact my relationship with Miranda in anyway. That had to remain solid. Now that I was a part of the <em>us </em>and well aware of why that mattered so much to me, it was something I would have to defend. I couldn’t have my lower, basal instincts endangering my newfound proximity to Miranda. I wasn’t so ignorant as to think that I could possibly ever actually <em>have </em>her, just be near to her, and I knew that if she ever realized what I had just realized, I could lose that completely.</p><p> </p><p>For her part, Miranda didn’t seem at all phased by my newly discovered feelings, which helped to assuage my fears that I was being obvious. I had never dealt with anything like this before. Anytime I’d had feelings for someone I always seemed to realize it immediately, and it had certainly never been anyone in a position like Miranda- never my boss, never so famous, never so intimidating. I felt that I must surely be blushing constantly now, wearing my affection for her all over my face. It didn’t help that she was notoriously excellent at reading other people. I had seen it myself so many times. Knowing what people wanted was quite literally her job. I felt anything but inscrutable beside her, on display for her perusal at all times, and now was no different. No one had ever been able to read me the way that she had, and I suppose the same could be true in reverse. The difference was that now I had this incredibly dangerous secret to keep from her, and my job and happiness both depended on me doing it successfully.</p><p> </p><p>I suppose those high school drama classes were going to come in handy for the first time in a long time.</p><p> </p><p>The wash of new emotions I was suddenly subject to didn’t seem to affect my ability to do my job, thankfully. I was still as on the ball as ever, tending quickly and oh so carefully to Miranda’s every command. If anything, those emotions strengthened my commitment to follow through. I had always wanted her respect and praise, but now I craved it from the depths of my being. I needed her to <em>see </em>me; to see my commitment and passion for assisting her, even if she could never know the reasons why I was so invested. I could see already that this would be a fine line to walk- between showing her my dedication and showing her my <em>dedication</em>. I didn’t want her to think I was doing all of this for myself. I wanted her to know it was all for her, but I knew that was dangerous in itself.</p><p> </p><p>Beyond everything else, I just wanted some time to think about all of this and what it meant moving forward. While outwardly I appeared to be thriving throughout the day, poised at Miranda’s side, inwardly I was screaming for a moment to myself, to meditate on this churning in my stomach, on <em>her</em>. At the same time, I didn’t want to leave her. I desired more so now than ever to be near to her, and I knew that while I needed a moment alone to ruminate on my feelings, I would miss her the moment she was no longer by my side. <em>Yikes</em>. I had it bad.</p><p> </p><p>Both to my frustration and joy, the end of the day came on more quickly than expected. The final scheduled event for our evening had been cancelled and moved to the following day on account of weather. As beautifully dramatic as an outdoor fashion show would have been during a thunderstorm, the organizers felt it best not to risk life and limb for fashion this time. Miranda had muttered something under her breath and rolled her eyes when I had told her, but even she couldn’t wage a war with Mother Nature.</p><p> </p><p>We arrived back to the hotel at around seven, Miranda immediately retiring to her suite with nothing more than a “hold my calls,” spilling from her lips. It seems the day had gotten to her, even, though I couldn’t imagine why. She had been saved from a great deal of stress- Irv had been undermined, her position was secure, and her evening was now free. She should be anything but overwhelmed right now. I was the one who had reason for exhaustion and nervousness. My evening with Christian Thompson had left me feeling dirty and used, as well as disgusted with myself, and my body had still not recovered from the amount of alcohol it had taken to get me into his bed. That, coupled with the sudden realization this morning that I was madly in love with my boss had me feeling completely drained and unable to focus. Still, though, I had been able to enjoy her presence throughout the day and I immediately felt a pang of loss when the door to her suite shut behind her. I was alone again, and left to these complex thoughts about Miranda.</p><p> </p><p>Kicking off my Louboutins as I entered my own room, I let out a deep sigh, as if trying to exhale everything that had been clouding my mind for the past several hours. Still, thoughts swam around my brain, chasing each other and leaving me no rest:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Am I a lesbian now? Have I always been a lesbian? Am I bisexual? Did I ever really love Nate? When did I fall in love with Miranda? Have I always been attracted to Miranda? Have I been attracted to women before? What about my tenth grade English teacher who made my stomach swoop every single day? Was I in love with her? Had I been in love with my mentor at Northwestern? The older, brilliant lecturer who had praised my wit and looked at me with a twinkle in her eye? Oh my god, how had I been so blind for all of these years? </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>And then, of course, there was the:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What do I do? How do I see her every day and not die inside? How do I stay beside her every minute and not be eaten by the knowledge that I can never have her? How will I keep myself from disintegrating? From going mad with longing? How do I cope with the pain of being near to her? </em>
</p><p>And the:</p><p> </p><p><em>How do I keep myself beside her? How do I make sure she doesn’t get rid of me? Promote me? Move me on as promised? How do I stay by her side without being </em>hers?</p><p> </p><p>That was the crux of the problem, alright. The moment I knew I was in love with her was the moment I realized I was truly, utterly, overwhelmingly, completely, horribly, yet deliciously fucked. I would never have Miranda Priestly. There was no question in my mind of that. She was absolutely everything in the world that I wanted, and absolutely the last person that I could ever get. What I could get, though, was closer to her, and I would take what I could get.</p><p> </p><p>I resolved myself to accepting my fate. There was no getting around this- I was madly in love with her, and so I would do what I had to do to stay near to her. I would never make her uncomfortable, or deign to think for a moment that I could actually have any of my hopes realized. I would not press, or even try to get closer to her- no, I would allow Miranda to steer this ship, as she had been doing all along. It had been she, of course, who had permitted my admittance into the <em>us.</em> That was not of my own doing. All I had done was commit myself to my job and to fulfilling her requests. It was Miranda who noticed my devotion, enthusiasm, and loyalty for her and chose to move me closer to her inner circle. If I steadied my ground and continued pursuing my obligations to her passionately, perhaps the needle on the gauge of our proximity to one another would continue to move without my interference. Perhaps, one day, I could be considered something more than an employee. Perhaps a colleague, or even a friend.</p><p> </p><p><em>Ha</em>. Being friends with Miranda Priestly? Was that even possible? Was anyone friends with Miranda? Even Nigel, dear, darling Nigel who had practically been shot in the back today, was not really Miranda’s <em>friend</em>.  She had people she called her friends, certainly, and those people probably considered Miranda their friend, but I wasn’t so sure Miranda returned the sentiment. The only people outside the office I had ever seen her show any real affection for were Caroline and Cassidy. Not even her husband (well, now presumably soon-to-be-ex-husband) managed to elicit anything more than the most standard of greetings when in her presence. She kept up appearances, but there had never been any warmth behind their interactions. Within the office there were a few people who seemed to make Miranda glow a bit brighter when they were around: a few of the more senior editors, Nigel, Leslie, a couple of established designers who flitted in and out of the offices at their own leisure and knew Miranda from god knows how long ago. But I ran Miranda’s life, and I had never been asked to contact anyone who had a connection to her that was purely platonic. There was always a tinge of business in her interactions, because that’s who Miranda was. She was her business, through and through, in and out, at the expense of any semblance of a personal life. I almost felt bad for her, but I knew that was what she wanted. Or at least what she thought she wanted.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe I could light that candle. Be that spark. No, I had no ill-advised assumptions that I would be running off into the sunset with her anytime soon. I knew that she was completely off limits to me romantically, barring the intervention of a voodoo witch doctor, and she would stay that way. However, we were both missing pieces. I had just lost Nate and what I had considered a fairly well-established personal life complete with a shared apartment, shared friends, shared furnishings, shared expenses. She was losing her husband, the twins were moving back in with their father, and she would be alone. So utterly alone, just like me. Perhaps she didn’t want me in the way that I wanted to be there for her, but I could be there for her in other ways. I could make sure that this abrupt transition in her life was as smooth as possible, and hopefully in return she would move me closer and closer into the fold.</p><p> </p><p>For now, though, sleep.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you for reading. </p><p>i miss this movie and the fanfic so fucking much y'all</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Andrea, row faster! I think I can see the shore.”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I could see it too, but that didn’t change the fact that we were knee deep in water as it was. I took a moment’s pause from my panic to look at her.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Miranda, I need your help to get the water out of the boat. We’re sinking!”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>She was utterly unperturbed by my statement, and turned to glare at me, her signature silver hair tousled by the wind. Even in the middle of a life-threatening emergency, she was stunning.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Andrea, I demand you continue to row the boat to shore. Stop filling those buckets this instant, you silly girl!”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>And so I did what she said. And I rowed and rowed as the water heightened around us, the boat slowly losing its grip to the waves. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Because I would rather die than disobey her.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>And then the water started to fill my lungs.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Six?”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>“Six wake up!”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Six!”</p><p> </p><p>Bright light in my eyes. A fuzzy impression of a man I know somewhere in the middle.</p><p> </p><p>Nigel.</p><p> </p><p>“Nigel what are you doing in my bedroom?”</p><p> </p><p>An eyebrow raised at me.</p><p> </p><p>“Andy Sachs, you are not in your bedroom. You are in a palatial suite opposite Miranda in the thrumming city center of Paris, France. And you have been saying the word ‘boat’ over and over again in various intonations for the past three minutes. If we didn’t have work get to, it might even have been cute.”<br/><br/></p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>I was out of bed before he finished his sentence, diving straight for the dresser and thumbing through my clothes, not wasting an instant, lest I find out Miranda was on the other side of the door, already ready for the day and to skin me alive for tardiness.</p><p> </p><p>“Shit, Nigel, what time is it? And how did you get in here?”</p><p> </p><p>“Calm down, you’re lucky I arrived early to talk before we head out for the day. Clear the air, if you will. You still have twenty minutes before Miranda walks out and commands your undivided attention for the next twelve or so hours.”</p><p> </p><p>My shoulders relaxed a bit, but my motions didn’t slow. I still had overslept, and would have to spend less time on my makeup than usual to make up for it.</p><p> </p><p>“What did you need to clear the air about?” I asked, throwing on a pair of gold earrings.</p><p> </p><p>Nigel gave me one of his patented, pained expressions and sat on the corner of my unmade bed, completely out of place.</p><p> </p><p>“Why, Miranda, of course.”</p><p> </p><p>I didn’t bother responding, choosing instead to focus on finding a matching pair of heels. It briefly occurred to me that this might be the last time I get dressed in front of a man for a very long time, and I almost stumbled sliding my foot into a Jimmy Choo.</p><p> </p><p>Nigel didn’t seem to notice.</p><p> </p><p>“I realized, quite a bit late, after a bottle of Stoli, that you took yesterday’s events a bit hard and I wanted to make sure you didn’t go off and do something stupid on my behalf.”</p><p> </p><p>“Something stupid?” It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” he smirked, laying back and looking a bit like the Cheshire cat, “something stupid. Like quit your job in a dramatic display of hostility towards Miranda and the industry.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Damn Nigel could read me too well.</em>
</p><p>“No, Nigel, I did not quit my job. I’m still here, aren’t I?”</p><p> </p><p>He hummed and tipped his head a bit, watching me struggle into my tights.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, though if I hadn’t arrived when I did you might not be for much longer.”</p><p> </p><p>I leveled him with an amused glare.</p><p> </p><p>“You think Miranda would fire me over one instance of lateness?”</p><p> </p><p>He laughed. “You don’t?”</p><p> </p><p>I stopped for a moment to consider this. Maybe, on a really bad day, Miranda might have fired me for being late. But that was before. Before Emily broke her leg and I took over first assistant duties, before I saw Miranda bare-faced and beautiful, alone and broken in a hotel room, before she made me part of the <em>us.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>“No, Nigel, I really don’t think she would.”</p><p> </p><p>It was my turn to laugh.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I’m special.”</p><p> </p><p>He chortled back, barely containing himself.</p><p> </p><p>“None of us are that special, six. We’re all replaceable in Miranda’s eyes. Even you, even me. Yesterday was proof of that.”</p><p> </p><p>Rising from the bed, Nigel made his way over to the lighted counter where I was now doing my makeup. I could see him standing behind me, still smirking.</p><p> </p><p>“I thought that too, at first, Nigel. I really did,” I began, holding his gaze in the mirror even as I traced liquid liner in a delicate stroke over my upper eyelid. “I thought, for a brief moment, that yesterday was proof of her heartlessness. The final nail in the coffin on Miranda Priestly’s humanity. That if she could betray you like that, I could no longer stand beside her. But I realized something, Nigel.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I had realized a lot of things, actually.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What’s that, Sachs? What did you suddenly realize?”</p><p> </p><p>“That she’s a tiger pinned against the wall of a cage- and she has been her whole life. Irv backed her into a corner and she did what she had to do to get out of it. Miranda doesn’t relish stepping on people to get to the top, Nigel, she does it because she has to. It’s an unfortunate adaptation to survival in a world dominated by misanthropic misogynists who care more about a bottom line and stockholders than their own humanity.”</p><p> </p><p>Nigel huffed out a low chortle. “Oh, you’re the one defending Miranda now? And her humanity<em>?</em> I remember a time not too long ago when I was giving you a very similar speech, <em>An-dre-ah</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>The irony was not lost on me.</p><p> </p><p>“And you were right, Nigel. You were right all along. It just took me awhile of being next to her to see it. To see that she really does care. She puts care into every little thing that she does. She just doesn’t have time for niceties, because those are the rules of the game in this world. You sink or swim, and there’s no hand holding. She needs people beside her who can take those blows. It’s not up to her. Miranda Priestly didn’t write out the rules of the business world; they were carved out of years and years of misogyny and greed. She just learned how to play. And when she can, she will reward us. But not at her own expense- never at her own expense. That’s how she’s survived this long. It’s not personal, it’s just business. You and I? We <em>are </em>special to Miranda. Because we haven’t left. Even Emily, though Miranda would never dare to admit it in a million years, is special in her own way, because she’s still here. Miranda values loyalty above all else. If you can ride out the storm with her, and take a few hits here and there, she will value you. She will reward you- but you have to be willing to sacrifice for her. Her pride has to come before yours.”</p><p> </p><p><em>And the Oscar goes to: Andrea Sachs</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Damn, I just wish Miranda was here for this.</p><p> </p><p>As for Nigel, his smirk had faded to an appearance of subtle astonishment. But then, a grin.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank <em>god</em> you’ve finally come around.”</p><p> </p><p>I didn’t need to say anything, because the confusion on my face was enough to prompt him to continue.</p><p> </p><p>“All this time you’ve waltzed around expecting Miranda to conform to your own moral standards. You’ve gotten better, don’t get me wrong, but you’ve still had an air about you that said <em>I’m too good for this</em>. As if you were just a peg above the rest of us, deigning to grace us with your presence for a time.”</p><p> </p><p>He must have seen my flabbergasted expression, because he quickly corrected himself.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t get me wrong, Andy, I know you work your ass off for Miranda, and I know you have a great deal of respect for her and for me, personally. I also know that you’ve gone from thinking this was all just a pile of <em>stuff </em> to understanding the complexities of why we do what we do. But part of me still really expected you to walk after yesterday- to see what Miranda did to me and decide that you could no longer deign to work for her. But you’ve surprised me, six. Pleasantly surprised me. I’ve always known that at the end of the day, I have Miranda’s respect- her loyalty even. Of course I’m disappointed about the loss of the James Holt job, but I know she’ll give me something comparable at Runway soon. She didn’t want to give me up to begin with, but she cared about me enough to line me up for that position anyway. Even though losing me would have major costs for her. You’re right- it wasn’t personal that she took the job away and put it in the hands of Jacqueline. She did that to save her own skin. But it <em>was </em>personal that she put me up for the position to begin with. She didn’t have to do that, just like she didn’t have to keep you around after your numerous failings-“</p><p> </p><p>“-Nigel-”</p><p> </p><p>“No- six, you had your little tirade, now let me have mine. I don’t say this to undercut your successes, Andy. I know you’re good at your job, but Miranda demands the impossible. You’ve managed it lately, but there have been times in the past where I thought for sure she was going to fire you, but she didn’t. She didn’t fire you. Even Emily would have been gone had she pulled some of your more ridiculous stunts. I don’t tell you this to hurt you- I tell you this so you’ll see how, yes, perhaps you are right, you <em>are </em>special. Miranda runs through assistants like most people run through pantyhose. Emily has only stuck around because she, quite literally, worships the ground Miranda walks on, and spends every waking minute trying to please her. You aren’t like Emily. You hadn’t so much as bent over backward for Miranda until a good few months into your employment. Yes, you’ve been through the ringer since then. She’s demanded the impossible and you’ve stepped up to the plate. But she took it easy on you early on, six. She’s let you slide time after time when any other girl would have been out of here without a moment’s thought. You’re still here because she cares about you, Andy. Don’t fuck it up.”</p><p> </p><p>Now I was the one left gaping, my freshly stained mouth open in a mixture of astonishment and confusion. Nigel raised a final eyebrow and walked towards the door.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you for standing up for me. Miranda told me, you know. She said, verbatim, ‘<em>An-dre-ah somehow found within her today the wherewithal to question my decision making concerning the position at James Holt. She was rather upset when she found out I had recommended Jacqueline over you. I thought you should know.”</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>“Why would she tell you that?”</p><p> </p><p>He regarded me once more before placing his hand on the doorknob.</p><p> </p><p>“Because she wants me to know you’re loyal to me. Because sometimes I think you and I are the closest thing Miranda has in the world to actual friends. Do you know what she said after that?”</p><p> </p><p>I shook my head.</p><p> </p><p>“She said <em>If anyone else had said that to me, I would have fired them on the spot. </em>See you later, Six.”</p><p> </p><p>The door shut.</p><p> </p><p>Oof.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope I still have your attention.</p><p>If I do, let me know.</p><p>Leave a comment- it helps me know you're reading and someone wants me to write more.</p><p>Makes me write faster ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I somehow managed to get myself together in the remaining six-ish minutes I had before Miranda would emerge from her cocoon to face the day.</p><p> </p><p>Or her coffin, if you read the seedier fashion blogs online.</p><p> </p><p>There was no time to process the wealth of information gleaned from my brief conversation with Nigel. I just had to trudge forward through the day with the knowledge that, yet again, I would have time to unravel my thoughts after twelve to fourteen hours of fashion shows, interviews, meetings, lunches, dinners, etc., etc. . All the while I would be suppressing my newly exposed feelings for my boss, whom I would be beside for the entire day. Nothing in journalism school had prepared me for this.</p><p> </p><p>After one last glance in the mirror, and deciding that I seemed passable enough to stand beside (or, rather, behind) her Highness in photographs, I followed Nigel’s earlier lead and stepped out my hotel room door into the brightly lit hallway.</p><p> </p><p>I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that she wasn’t there waiting for me. For the most part, Miranda was precisely punctual, but there had been a few occasions where she had surprised me by arriving early. Sometimes I almost thought she did it on purpose, as if to see how prepared I was.  </p><p> </p><p>“Andrea, call the car around. I’d like to leave promptly in three minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Speak of the devil.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Thank god I had managed to shut my door before she opened hers.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, Miranda.”</p><p> </p><p>I was dialing before I could think, summoning our Parisian Roy from his parking spot just a street or so down. I always had someone ready for her at least two hours early, just in case.</p><p> </p><p>I hadn’t even hung up before she was stalking towards to elevator, sunglasses already on and purse clutched firmly in her delicate hand. I followed behind accordingly, adjusting my skirt slightly and brushing my hair out of my eyes, but stopping before actually getting onboard. Naturally, I would wait for the next car.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t have time to dilly-dally today, Andrea, get in.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t have to take her sunglasses off for me to know she was rolling her eyes at the dazed expression on my face. But nobody got to ride in the elevator with Miranda. Not even Nigel.</p><p> </p><p>I couldn’t tell if I was experiencing immense joy, or if I had succumbed to shock, but I diligently trailed after her anyways, taking an uncomfortable position beside her as the doors closed themselves.</p><p> </p><p>I didn’t dare move my head to confirm it, but I could swear I saw an upturned lip out of the corner of my eyes.</p><p> </p><p>God I was screwed.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully we were only on the third floor, and the ride down took seconds rather than minutes.</p><p> </p><p>Finally, I was saved with a ding.</p><p> </p><p>The doors slid open, and fate was kind enough to present us before Nigel, who, despite his earlier speech about Miranda and caring, mirrored my shocked expression. The lady herself took absolutely no interest in either of us, and walked straight towards the doors to the lobby. A bellman who obviously knew of La Priestly and looked absolutely frazzled by her presence rushed to open the door for her, nearly bowing as he did so. Miranda, to her credit, didn’t even acknowledge him and instead paused halfway out the door to peer back over her shoulder and shoot Nigel and I look that clearly said <em>are you coming?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>God, this day was going to be hell on wheels. I wasn’t sure what had gotten into Miranda, but it seemed like I wasn’t the only one who had undergone some sort of revelation.</p><p> </p><p>As she turned back around, Nigel caught my eyes and shrugged, falling instep behind her. I ended up the caboose of our little train walking out onto the pavement in front of the hotel. The car was there already, as expected, and I breathed another sigh of relief, as I did every single time a task for Miranda was fulfilled. And thank goodness, because I really didn’t think I was in the mood for another surprise so soon.</p><p> </p><p>Mercifully, the rest of the morning was relatively surprise-free. Nigel and Miranda were rushed off to the front row of half a dozen runway shows before noon, with myself barely lucky enough to catch a seat in the back. I wasn’t so upset that I was missing out on the shows- I could see them well enough, or at least what I cared to see of them. I just wanted to be nearer to Miranda. This sudden awareness of my need for proximity was as infuriating and frustrating as could be. She was accommodating enough to make sure I was there beside her for the pre-and-post-show interviews, but that was probably more for her comfort than my own.</p><p> </p><p>In between events, Nigel flitted back and forth between adorable potential French suitors, sometimes coming back with a business card tucked in his front pocket, something I noticed Miranda nodded at approvingly at least once. It was good to see she wasn’t so bitter about her own divorce that she couldn’t find it within herself to be happy for a friend. <em>Friend. </em>There was that word again, jutting out there on the edge of madness. But it did seem like they were getting along rather swimmingly for two people who had been so close to a divergence of paths yesterday. Though I suppose the same could be said for myself and Miranda. Maybe she had to test us, to see how far our loyalties would stretch before she allowed us into her inner circle. Heaven only knew, and I wasn’t about to try to figure it out in the middle of a day as busy as this one. I would do good to hold onto my own sanity until we got back to New York and I had time to digest all of these minutely complicated little events that had piled on top of each other during our stay here.</p><p> </p><p>At around 12:30 Miranda left us for a lunch with a few up-and-coming Parisian designers that she was hoping to snatch up before Jacqueline could get her claws into them. Nigel and I were left to our own devices and ended up at a jaunty little café across the street from the next venue. It was as relaxed a time as we could get to ourselves, and I was grateful for his company, even if he did spend the entire time perusing over French magazines and models. The weather was calm and clear, and I found myself truly enjoying my time in Paris for the first time since that ill-fated evening with Christian. It really was a beautiful city, and I found myself wishing I had more time to explore its nooks and crannies without such great time constraints. I imagined that Miranda would be a great guide for my time here. Perhaps one day, if I were really lucky, she would grace me with her presence and act as one. I could only hope.</p><p> </p><p>Our leisure time came to an end as quickly as it had begun, with Miranda’s car pulling up across the street five minutes ahead of schedule. We rushed ourselves over and greeted her as she exited the car, Nigel handing her a schedule for the next show. Something, or more likely <em>someone</em>, must have annoyed her at lunch because her visage had soured into one of slight boredom and contempt. I found myself being extra cheerful to make up for her waning mood, but even then I worried that she would become annoyed and so I calmed myself in preparation for the rest of the afternoon. Caring so much about Miranda’s feelings was already beginning to emotionally tax me, and I would have to get a handle on that if I was going to continue working so closely beside her. I couldn’t risk my job over feelings for my boss.</p><p> </p><p>Her own frustrations must have kept her mind occupied because she didn’t seem to notice any change in my countenance for the rest of the afternoon. I was grateful for this, freely out from under her watchful eye at least for the moment. She had much more important things to think about, and that left me free to think about her unencumbered by scrutiny. I couldn’t believe the morning as it had transpired. Well, honestly, I couldn’t believe the events of the past week: Nate was gone, Miranda’s husband was gone, I slept with someone other than Nate for the first time in six years, Miranda had almost lost Runway, Nigel gained and lost a job, Miranda had indoctrinated me into the <em>us, </em>I realized I was in love with her, and then she had let me ride on the <em>elevator </em>with her.</p><p> </p><p>It was quite a lot to digest, and even that was skipping over a great number of minute, important details. I didn’t just need a moment, I needed a decade. And perhaps a drink.</p><p> </p><p>The one great thing about Paris was that there was champagne absolutely everywhere. Champagne and cigarettes. Or at least, that’s what overflowed in the circles we ran in. <em>We</em>. Hmm.</p><p> </p><p>I pilfered a flute of bubbly off the first waiter I saw at the next show. I figured I deserved it after the week I had. Hell, Miranda deserved it too. And Nigel. I giggled, imagining a drunk Miranda. She never allowed herself to become that compromised, but I knew the human body well enough to know that even a stalwart, poised woman like Miranda Priestly would loosen up with enough liquor running through her veins. I hoped I lived to see it. But with my luck, I could bet she’d save it for my funeral.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually the alcohol settled warmly in my stomach and I felt my nerves ease up a bit by the time the first model walked. As happy as I was for the release of tension, I was equally, if not more, concerned that my current feelings for Miranda could lead to a drinking problem.</p><p> </p><p>Eh, I would deal with it when I dealt with it. For now, I would allow myself to enjoy the respite it brought me from the day.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, things seemed to run smoother after those first few swallows.</p><p> </p><p>The flashing lights were not so blinding, the heels didn’t clack as loudly, and the music faded to a dull roar in the back of my brain. I was relaxed, and as long as Miranda didn’t ask for anything too out of the usual, I would be just fine. I allowed my thoughts to drift a bit, eyes facing forward towards to the runway, but mind racing backwards towards this morning. Thoughts about how Nigel said Miranda cared. How she had let me into the elevator with her. How she and I were now both single.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stop it, Andy. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Miranda now might view me as something more than a bumbling assistant, but she certainly didn’t see me in any capacity beyond what she might see someone like Nigel in, and I probably wasn’t even close to there yet. I couldn’t risk letting my heart want for what it could never have- the higher the hopes, the farther they can fall, and with absolutely no logical reason to think my feelings could ever be returned? There was no sense in setting myself up for such a let-down.</p><p> </p><p>Regardless, I knew that I could never make myself leave Miranda, even if I knew it would be for the best. At least not now, that is. Perhaps one day in the future I would find myself able to move on from these thoughts about her, and turn my affections towards someone else, but so long as my heart was fixated on her, it was useless to try and prevent myself from gaining joy from being around her. So, it was imperative that I find a way to be thankful for what I <em>did</em> get from Miranda, without expecting more than what was reasonable. It would be an interesting line to try and walk.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Merci!</p><p>Thank you for still being here.</p><p>Please comment if you liked it, or want more.</p><p>Constructive criticism is okay, too!</p><p>You can even tell me what you want to happen!</p><p>Betas still needed</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I wasn’t lucky enough to have any time with her during the shows, but I was looking forward to this evening. There was an after party being held by Vogue Paris, and it was a rare kind of affair where I wasn’t responsible for planning anything, and could simply enjoy showing up and being beside Miranda for the night. I wondered, briefly, what it would look like to outside observers. I had never known Miranda to be without a partner. Stephen was almost always with her for a great portion of the evening, if only just to keep up appearances, and even when he was rarely unavailable, Miranda usually had time to invite a friend or designer (usually gay) to take his place beside her for the eve. Then, of course, Emily and I usually shadowed behind them, ready to assist her with whatever needs might arise. There hadn’t been time to find Miranda a suitable replacement for the party, and she hadn’t even bothered to ask me to look. I supposed she might throw Nigel on her arm for a few photos, but for the most part it seemed it would be her and I moseying our way through the crowds tonight, together.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stop it, Andy.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>It was difficult not to be excited by the prospect of standing beside her all night at a ball. Even if we weren’t technically there together, and there would be absolutely <em>no </em>dancing, I would still be seen next to her, both of us dressed to the nines, and without a buffer it would be inevitable that her conversation partners would turn to me and expect me to speak. Back in New York, I was well known enough as Miranda’s assistant that people left me alone at such events, and I was almost always with Emily, looking more in pair with her than our boss. In Paris it was much different- I had already been approached by a number of journalists and designers, who were all wondering who I was and why <em>I </em>was lucky enough to be beside La Priestly. That, coupled with the lack of Stephen, and I might start looking like Miranda’s date.</p><p> </p><p>Blushing with that thought, I climbed into the car behind Miranda after the last show. Nigel had long since departed from our little trio, probably off to flirt with handsome French men. I was to return to the hotel with Miranda and we would prepare for the night. A runner would be hand delivering Miranda’s gown for the event, as it was far too cumbersome to have traveled with us. Mine had been de-fluffing from the plane ride in the only closet in my suite. I had hand-steamed it the night before and just hoped it would look half as good as it did when I tried it on. Miranda would look perfect, as usual, and it would probably kill me, as usual- only this time I would know why.</p><p> </p><p>I took a moment to look over at her in the back of the car. She looked a weary from the day, and I wished that I could rub her temples and soothe her furrowed brow. Her visage was still as stunning as ever, but she looked tired, and I could tell she wasn’t nearly as excited for the night as I was.</p><p> </p><p>The words came out before I could stop myself.</p><p> </p><p>“Miranda, why don’t you take the night off?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yikes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>I quickly shifted my gaze to the interior of the car.</p><p>
  
</p><p>You never ask Miranda anything.</p><p> </p><p>You certainly didn’t <em>tell</em> her what to do. You didn’t suggest things to Miranda. Not unless she specifically requested it of you. If she wanted your opinion, she would ask for it. And then she was under absolutely no obligation to respond to you or use your advice. You were to be grateful that you had been asked to speak to her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Shit.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>I was too scared to check and see whether her expression had soured, but I could tell she was looking at me.</p><p> </p><p>“And what, Andrea, would you have me say to Carine Roitfeld, the Editor-in-Chief of Vogue Paris when she calls and asks why I did not attend the affair she planned nearly a year in advance specifically to accommodate my schedule?”</p><p> </p><p>I still couldn’t meet her eyes, but I knew I was done for.</p><p> </p><p>“That you got sick?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Really, Andy? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>But then, something happened; something that hadn’t happened but once in a great blue moon, and certainly never at my provocation.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda <em>laughed.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>It wasn’t a hearty laugh. It wasn’t a deep laugh. At best, it could be described as sitting comfortably somewhere between a small chortle and a huff, but <em>it was a laugh.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>I finally met her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>She was looking back at me, with just a tinge of subtle astonishment; her mouth still parted slightly, corners barely upturned.</p><p> </p><p>Then she spoke, no longer appearing surprised, but still smiling, if only just, and her eyes still fixed on mine.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine tonight Andrea, but I do appreciate your concern.”</p><p> </p><p>It was my turn to be astonished. I was pleased that she hadn’t been angry with me for speaking out of turn, but I was stunned that she had responded the way that she had. She had laughed, and all but thanked me for caring about her.</p><p> </p><p>Moreover, she hadn’t broken our eye contact, and I could feel myself blushing under her gaze, helpless to stop it.</p><p> </p><p>She tilted her head slightly, regarding me almost curiously.</p><p> </p><p>“I told you before that I was impressed how intently you had tried to warn me about Irv giving the magazine to Jacqueline.”</p><p> </p><p>I nodded, unsure where this was going but somehow certain that I wasn’t supposed to speak yet.</p><p> </p><p>“I was impressed, Andrea, because it demonstrated a great deal of loyalty to me. There are not too many people in this industry whom, given your position, wouldn’t have greatly welcomed a chance to get rid of me, or at the very least used this opportunity to advance themselves in some way. You gleaned this information from Christian Thompson, did you not?”</p><p> </p><p>I nodded again, and willed my heart to stop racing.</p><p> </p><p>“Christian Thompson may be a vile backstabber to me, but he could have helped your career. He has dozens, if not hundreds, of contacts in the very industry that I thought, up until now, that you would have jumped at a chance to leave me for. I know, Andrea, that you went out with him the night before you rushed to warn me about his plans with Jacqueline. I also know that you chose to throw away whatever opportunities that a relationship with Christian Thompson could have provided you with, and that you did so on my behalf.”</p><p> </p><p>She still had those piercing blue eyes locked on mine, and I was drowning in them.</p><p> </p><p>“I know that you did not come to New York wanting to work in the fashion industry. I know that you wanted to be a journalist, not my assistant. It would have been easy for many people to turn their backs on me, given the circumstances you find yourself in. I am not an easy person to work for, and Christian Thompson would have given you the keys to the castle if he had come on board at Runway. You may have even enjoyed working for Jacqueline.”</p><p> </p><p>I couldn’t help it and I scoffed, audibly. She smiled again.</p><p> </p><p> I could get used to her smiling, but I could do without the butterflies in my stomach that it elicited.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s it, isn’t it, Andrea? It’s not about your position at Runway. I know you don’t care about Runway. You might have become more appreciative of the industry working here, and adjusted your attire accordingly, but that’s not why you’re so dedicated to your job. I see you, Andrea. Don’t think that because I do not stop to thank you for each and every thing you do that I do not see you do it. You work circles around Emily, and your attempts to save me from being ousted at Runway the other day verified for me why. You are loyal to me, Andrea; loyal in a way that not many people have been loyal to me. Loyal at a cost- the way Nigel is loyal to me. Willing to put your own needs and wants aside for me, to protect me.”</p><p> </p><p>I steadied my breath, and clenched at the leather of the seats. I felt pinned to my seat by her words.</p><p> </p><p>“The question that keeps coming to me, however, is why. Nigel is devoted to me, and to the industry. He admires my position and my legacy, and his loyalty is built from that. The people on the list I told you about are loyal to me because I helped them build their careers, but even they are only loyal to an extent. Emily’s loyalty is somewhere between theirs and Nigel’s. She’s loyal to me because she worships me and what I represent, and she knows I can help her succeed, but she would leave me if it benefitted her to do so. My children are loyal to me because I am their mother, and they are, outside of Nigel, the only people whom I do not expect to leave me completely one day. And so the question remains, Andrea, why are you loyal to me? Everybody else leaves. You haven’t left. Why have you remained so unwaveringly loyal? Certainly not just for a recommendation. You could have gotten that from Jacqueline and Christian in my stead. Is there something else you are hoping to receive in return for your loyalty? People do not stay beside me without wanting things from me, Andrea.”</p><p> </p><p>My head was spinning. How had she come so close to my own line of thinking? God help me if she kept thinking and came to the same conclusion. I had to be careful with my words. Very careful. I couldn’t let her see too much of me, of my real motivations, but I also couldn’t lie to her. I couldn’t leave her thinking that I had ulterior motives or anticipated some sort of grand reward for my services. I stayed because I loved her- because I couldn’t imagine being apart from her, but she couldn’t know that, and so I would have to parse my words.</p><p> </p><p>Part of me expected her to continue, but when the pause continued I knew it was my turn to speak.</p><p> </p><p>So, I let it roll.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t expect anything from you, Miranda. I’m still here because I want to be here. I’m loyal to you because I respect you, and admire you. You’re right; fashion is not my wheelhouse. I’ve come to enjoy bits and pieces of it working alongside you and Nigel, but it isn’t my passion. My respect and admiration for you doesn’t come from your expertise in the industry, but from whom you have shown yourself to be as a person; as an intelligent and driven woman in this misogynistic industry. I don’t idolize a polished, unrealistic media image of you the way that Emily and the other clackers and models that strut the halls of Runway do. You ask me why I’m still here? I’m still here for you, Miranda- the real you. I haven’t left because I can’t leave a woman who I see give every single bit of her time and energy to everyone else and has nothing left for herself at the end of the day- a woman who works from sun up to sun down and sacrifices her personal time for the sake of those around her. People seem to think that you’re overly demanding, but I don’t. I don’t think you demand anything more from other people than what you demand out of yourself. I told you to take the night off because I think you deserve it, Miranda. You say I work hard, but no one works harder than you do. I see that, too. I could never have worked for Jacqueline because I could never have respected Jacqueline- getting her job in off the back of a woman who has given everything she has to Runway? You’re right, Miranda, nobody could do what you do. I see that. I appreciate that. I appreciate who you are. That’s why I’ve stayed.”</p><p> </p><p>I sat back in my seat as soon as I finished speaking, finally breaking our eye contact.</p><p> </p><p> I couldn’t believe I had the guts to say what I did.</p><p> </p><p>Even more, I couldn’t believe that Miranda had put so much thought into, well, <em>me</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Our previous conversation in the car, just a day prior, had let me know that she respected me. That she could see herself in me. That she considered me to be part of the <em>us. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Today, she had let her guard down even further. She had acknowledged my dedication to her, even as she wondered why it existed at all.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps I was beginning to matter more to Miranda. Not the more that I would hope for, but more nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever it was, I would take it.</p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t said anything in response, so I chanced a glance back in her direction. She wasn’t looking at me any longer; her eyes were fixed on something outside the window, but I could tell that she wasn’t really looking at it. She was thinking- thinking about what I had said, considering my words, rolling them over in her head and, perhaps, searching for meaning. Understanding.</p><p> </p><p>I clung to the wish that she wouldn’t find too much of it. I wanted her to know that I cared, but not that I <em>cared. </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>I took the opportunity to look at her unashamedly, as I had never done before.</p><p> </p><p>She was so beautiful. Her features were Roman, bold but delicate, and her skin was just this side of alabaster. Miranda Priestly struck a remarkable profile, and I decided right then that I could easily get used to looking over and seeing it there. I treasured moments like these when I could take in her exquisite beauty without worrying that someone would notice. Of course, eyes were always fixated on Miranda. When she entered into a room, it was difficult to find someone who was <em>not </em>gaping at her, open-mouthed and stunned by the vision she wrought. But when it was acceptable to look at her so brashly, she was always surrounded by people it was impossible to truly take your time to admire her the way she was clearly meant to be admired. Here, though, alone with her in the back of the car, I could take the time necessary to give each feature the attention it deserved. I had regarded her before in similar situations, always feeling privileged to be given such an opportunity, but I had never done it quite so brazenly as I did now. Had she turned to look at me, she certainly would have seen what was dancing behind my eyes: desire, longing, lust.</p><p> </p><p>And just when I was beginning to feel like I might be playing with fire, I snapped my eyes back around to the front of the car.</p><p> </p><p>I felt like I had gotten away with something. Like a thief, I had stolen more than just a glance at Miranda. I had let myself look at her lasciviously. To think about her <em>in that way</em> alone was one thing, but to think about it while I was staring her dead in the face?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That way madness lies.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>I was saved by our arrival to the hotel. If Miranda had anything else to say to me, it would have to wait.</p><p>
  
</p><p>We exited the car without a word, and I followed behind her towards the hotel.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hope you're still here. I will try to post more tomorrow. </p><p>Thank you for reading.</p><p>I really want this fandom to live on through the millennia. Like, when aliens find our planet thousands of years after we've died out, I want there to have been enough Devil Wears Prada fanfiction that there's some remnant of it left for them to see.</p><p>Peace &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I tried to break up the paragraphs a bit more this time to make readability easier! So much thanks to reader Jaycen who took the time to let me know the block paragraphs were making reading difficult. It's been so long since I've written &amp; formatting is my biggest roadblock, so I welcome any and all comments about how I can make this experience better for you, the readers. I don't write just for myself- I write for you guys, for this fandom. I want to make something that is lasting and well-regarded, and that means improving my work as I go along and get feedback from you. I appreciate each and every comment, bookmark, &amp; kudos so much- it shows me that my work is not going unnoticed and is not just helping me. Please keep those coming as they greatly improve my overall being, mood, and encourage me to write more. I love y'all so much already and I hope this addition is a good one. Please keep flooding me with ideas, too- I'm open to thoughts about where I should take the story. Thank you all so much, and keep in mind you can find me on twitter as @sapphicstranger if you want to have a longer, or more private, conversation about the story or the fandom in general. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Miranda didn’t let me ride with her on the way back up to our rooms. I should have expected it. In fact, I did expect it, but that didn’t stop my shoulders from drooping when she leaned forward and pressed the ‘close door’ button before I could get to the elevator.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Damn it.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Well, it was standard. It just felt a bit cold considering I had just spilled my heart out to her, as if she was trying to put back up a wall that had just been taken down.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe she needed some space?</p><p> </p><p>I boarded the second elevator, accepting my fate.</p><p> </p><p>I wanted to roll my eyes at myself. Miranda was definitely not thinking as hard about this as I was right now. I needed to get ahold of myself, and focus. I would have to be grateful for the moment that we had, and move forward.</p><p> </p><p>I absolutely did not expect her to be standing directly in front of the elevator when I exited, as if she had been waiting for me.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Just rip the band-aid off.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>“Was there something else you wanted from me, Miranda?”</p><p> </p><p>We were standing less than two feet apart, which was dangerously close for me, because suddenly I could smell her, and it was intoxicating.</p><p> </p><p>She was looking at me, really looking at me. I knew the difference, because I had seen her gaze pass over hundreds of models and fashion spreads without pausing to really consider them.</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes weren’t quite meeting mine, but she was studying me in an unfamiliar way, as if she were trying to figure me out, or seeing me for the first time. All I could do was stand there and stare back, ready to accept whatever it was that she was ready to dish out to me, as I usually was.</p><p> </p><p>The moment lasted just a few seconds past what could have been explained away or disregarded as nothing before Miranda ultimately cleared her throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Be ready to leave at 7 sharp, Andrea, wearing the red Valentino gown that will be delivered to your door in twenty minutes,” She paused, as if steadying herself, “Stephen is obviously no longer coming, and Nigel already has a cohort for this evening, so you will be attending the event in more of an informal capacity- as my associate, rather than my assistant. It is important that our outfits are coordinated as such.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Holy shit.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>You could not have prepared me for that. Nothing could have prepared me for that. As much as I had mused on how we would look there tonight together, I never thought she would actually officially make me her <em>date</em>.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh, do shut up, Andy.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>I wasn’t her date. Well, in the most technical of terms I supposed that I was, but it wasn’t like that. I was going to be there with her the way that Nigel would have been there with her had he not already had someone to go with. I was Miranda’s date as much as Nigel would have been Miranda’s date. A completely platonic date. A companion. A partner.</p><p> </p><p>Could it sound any gayer?</p><p> </p><p>Or was it just my own new affections for Miranda coloring my interpretation?</p><p> </p><p>If she wasn’t standing in front of me right then, I probably would have squealed.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, I put my game face on.</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, Miranda. Is there anything else I should keep in mind for this evening?”</p><p> </p><p>I couldn’t believe I was keeping it together. I didn’t know <em>how </em>I would keep it together tonight.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t bother trying to accessorize. I have a few pieces picked out for you. I will meet you at your room just prior to seven. That’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>And with a swift turn on her heel, she was gone, back down the corridor and towards her room.</p><p> </p><p>I needed a minute, but I didn’t <em>have </em>a minute. There were no minutes to spare.</p><p> </p><p>Pulling myself together and shaking myself out of my haze, I went to my own room and started applying my makeup. I felt like I was walking around in another universe. All of the events from today and the day prior were swirling around in my mind, melding together into a clusterfuck of absurdities.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda was going to have me accompany her tonight. Of course, that was the plan all along, but before I was there to <em>assist </em>her. Now, she had all but told me my services would no longer be required in that capacity. I was to be there beside her, in her husband’s stead.</p><p> </p><p>I shivered, and nearly poked myself in the eye with my mascara wand.</p><p> </p><p>What was Miranda playing at? Had she figured me out? Did she know what she was doing to me?</p><p> </p><p>Or, was the impossible happening, and Miranda was admitting vulnerability to me? At least, admitting as much as she could- in <em>her </em>way.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps she felt she needed me there; that she wasn’t ready to face the world alone quite so soon after yet another failed relationship. Maybe Miranda just needed a buffer.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever she needed- I would be there for her. It didn’t hurt that I was absolutely delighted by the idea of standing beside her all evening in some capacity other than what I was accustomed to. There had been several moments throughout our time in Paris where she had introduced me in a way that, looking back on it, was much more informal than her usual fare.</p><p> </p><p><em>“This is Andrea.” </em> Not, “<em>This is my assistant, Andrea.”</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Now, I knew she had elevated me in her mind somehow- into something beyond just an assistant. Tonight, and all the moments leading up to it, solidified my place beside Miranda.</p><p> </p><p>Emily was just going to <em>die</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She had been clamoring to get a hook in Miranda for the longest time- to be seen as more than a mere employee. I didn’t have any reason to believe her motivations were akin to my own- certainly not romantic in nature- but they were definitely there. She would be devastated if we returned from Paris and Miranda continued to treat me the way she had been treating me here.</p><p> </p><p>Then again, perhaps I was counting my chickens. It was certainly possible that I was only elevated for our time here, and that when we returned to New York I would go back to being the lowly second assistant who worked odd hours and brought Miranda the book every night.</p><p> </p><p>Something told me there was a major change on the horizon, though, and it wouldn’t be one Emily was satisfied with.</p><p> </p><p>Tonight would certainly prove interesting.</p><p> </p><p>I was thrumming with nervousness, even as I could see my face start to take shape before me. Tonight was not only an opportunity to get closer to Miranda, but it was an opportunity to use my position beside her for my own benefit. Of course I had no inclinations of leaving Runway anytime soon- I couldn’t feeling the way that I do about her- but I could certainly make contacts more easily as Miranda’s companion for the evening than as her assistant. The industry contacts we would rub shoulders with tonight would be far more likely to take me seriously in this role than in my prior role.</p><p> </p><p> I wondered momentarily if she was actually hoping that I would take the attention from her this evening. She couldn’t take my advice and actually fail to show up for the event, but she certainly could divert interest to me if she didn’t feel like explaining herself. It was possible that rumors had already begun to spread about her and Stephen’s divorce. Even if they hadn’t, they would start to at the party when the attendees noticed that Miranda’s husband was absent.</p><p> </p><p> I remembered putting in the RSVP for the Vogue Paris party myself. It had clearly read <em>Miranda Priestly and guest </em>and there had been a line where I had printed Stephen’s name. At the very least, I knew Carine Roitfeld would notice, and probably everyone present who directly worked for her. It was possible that they would attribute Stephen’s absence to something less salacious than a divorce, but gossip spread fast in the world of fashion, and there would undoubtedly be questions when he didn’t show up. I would have to make sure I acted as a beacon of sorts for Miranda, like a lightning rod for the snoops and the naysayers who would bring her down with their ill-advised questions.</p><p> </p><p>Nobody who worked for Miranda ever asked her any questions, but those who felt they were above it all, somehow elevated enough to deem themselves part of her circle, they would often inquire into her life at events like these. I had witnessed it a dozen or more times. They would slowly bob towards her, all bright, plastic smiles, ready to pepper her with their curiosities. Some questions initially would seem innocent, but they were really just bait to get her hooked before they delved into what they really wanted to know.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh Miranda, that dress is just divine, who made it for you?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I adored the shoot at the beginning of the last issue, who was the photographer?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>How are things going at the magazine these days?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Are Cassidy and Caroline enjoying their new school? It must be difficult without their father around.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p><em>Did Irv </em>really <em>cut the budget that much this quarter, Miranda?</em></p><p>
  
</p><p><em>How </em>are <em>you? You seem more tired than usual lately.We should have lunch and talk about it.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Dark little digs. Quick little swats at Miranda’s confidence, meant to weaken her and make her easier to sting the next time. Completely unprofessional. I couldn’t stand it. But tonight, I could do something about it.</p><p> </p><p>Usually I would stay to the sidelines and only speak when spoken too, and that was a rare affair itself. Once in a while an editor or designer would try and pass Emily or I their empty glass of champagne, as if we were there to serve them too, but that was the extent of our interactions outside of the odd drunk bachelor attempting to steal us away from Miranda, which she wouldn’t have allowed even if we had seemed interested. Otherwise, we just floated beside her, like two dazed, scurrying little moons orbiting Planet Miranda as she made her path around the greater solar system of the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>That wouldn’t be the case tonight. There was no one beside her, no other enigmatic figure who actually maybe kind of belonged to this world like Nigel or even Stephen, and neither was there an Emily to exist in duality with me, like the two ugly stepsisters in waiting for Lady Tremaine. No, Miranda and I would be, more or less, a pair. Not equals necessarily, but a pair nonetheless. I would be at her side tonight to take the blows, the inquests, the rude needling she endured at these things. I would be careful to make sure this was what she wanted and I didn’t step all over her, but I had gotten fairly good at foreseeing her desires, and I felt very much like she had given me this role to relieve some of the pressure on her.</p><p> </p><p>Why else would she have me in a red Valentino gown? I knew his collection and especially in red it was not going to be a demure piece. She was showcasing me, lighting me up for the moths to circuit in my glow. Emily and I usually chose black, or another dark, neutral color so as to not take any eyes away from Miranda. Tonight, however, she would have me on full display. I had no doubt that she would also be wearing something fashionable and notable- there was no way Miranda Priestly would show up to a gathering at Vogue Paris in anything less than a uniquely celestial ensemble, but she was apparently willing to share the spotlight with me this once.</p><p> </p><p>I smiled to myself in the mirror, finishing up my eyes, and allowing myself the pleasure of pondering how we might look together to everyone, without the distractions of Emily and Stephen beside us.</p><p> </p><p>I imagine we would make a striking couple.</p><p> </p><p>I let myself simmer on that until there was a sharp rap at my door. When I answered, I was greeted by a Bell Boy holding up a large black garment bag.</p><p> </p><p>“Pour vous, Mademoiselle!”</p><p> </p><p>I took it from him, sliding a few euros into his hand as I did so.</p><p> </p><p>“Merci, bonne nuit!”</p><p> </p><p>Shutting the door behind him, I immediately started pulling the zipper down on the bag. I felt like a child on Christmas morning, eager to see what Miranda had picked out for me. My skin was buzzing- it was so enchanting to know that she had decided upon my dress for this evening. It was undeniable that Miranda only wished to make sure I was presentable alongside her. If there was any extra effort in her choice, it was only because she wanted to make sure I could pull my weight beside her and charm the people she didn’t wish to speak much to. Still, there was something delicious about knowing that Miranda had chosen a dress with my figure in mind. She would have imagined me wearing it, like she did any of the models she dressed on the daily, careful to think of the way it would drape on my curves.</p><p> </p><p>Yes, that thought was certainly thrilling.</p><p> </p><p>There was no use fooling myself into thinking this was anything other than a logical, professional choice. At the absolute most it was a favor, meant to help herself or I.</p><p> </p><p>Still, I was giddy, and that only increased when I pulled the bag away to see the dress for the first time.</p><p> </p><p>Even without having it on, I could see myself in it immediately. It was right on the other side of dark- not a brash or bright red that would clash with my pale skin, but a deeper, richer red.</p><p> </p><p>Honestly, I thought of blood.</p><p> </p><p>But it wasn’t too much- the color wasn’t overwhelming to the senses. It was an expensive fabric. It would take in the light rather than reflect it. In this sense, it was subtle.</p><p> </p><p>But the cut? My god, the cut.</p><p> </p><p>I would have to tape myself into it. I barely had lingerie low enough to wear beneath it. It certainly wasn’t something I ever would have picked out for myself.</p><p> </p><p>I blushed.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Miranda.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t dwell on any miraculous implications, imagined or not. I would have to make quick work of myself if I was going to be ready prior to the deadline of seven. My face was almost complete, save for the slathering of lipstick that I was saving until I could match it to the gown, and so I immediately began shedding my clothes from the day and picking out undergarments that were minute enough not to be seen, but still resilient enough to hold up my bosom. It was quite the task.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Jesus, Miranda, couldn’t have given me a little warning that I’d be exposing Lucy and Ethel all evening?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Once that herculean effort was accomplished, and they were largely in place, held together with tape and a prayer, I started getting dressed.</p><p> </p><p>I almost choked when I imagined them spilling out in front of Miranda.</p><p> </p><p>The dress went on easily- almost too easily. I imagined that she most likely got my measurements from Nigel- or, even more amusingly, Emily. She definitely didn’t ask me for them. Though, I suppose her years in the industry probably taught her a thing or two about women’s figures.</p><p> </p><p>I tried not to let <em>that</em> thought linger too long. I was too easily distractible these days. Absolutely did not need to think about Miranda thinking about my figure.</p><p> </p><p>Once I sidled into the dress and got myself zipped up, I shuffled over to the mirror, still barefoot, and took in my appearance.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Wow.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Yeah, Miranda knew a thing or two about dressing women.</p><p> </p><p>This was far beyond anything I ever would have picked out for myself. If I had seen it on a model, or a mannequin, or god forbid a <em>hanger</em>, it would have been difficult for me to decide on this dress. I knew that looking at it earlier. The cut alone was enough to put me off. It wasn’t obscene by any means, but I tended to dress more conservatively, if only because of my position. It was normally my job to fade into the background- to look pretty enough to be in Miranda’s circle, but not good enough to distract anyone from the main course.</p><p> </p><p>There would be no wallflowering from me tonight. I would be front and center, and Miranda had made sure of that when she picked out this dress.</p><p> </p><p>What had she been thinking?</p><p> </p><p>I knew I had that theory that she was using me to distract from herself tonight, but even that couldn’t completely explain why Miranda would waste a dress like this on her assistant.</p><p> </p><p>Though, I had told Nigel myself I was special. I wasn’t just any assistant. I was part of the <em>us</em> now, and I would have to be dressed accordingly.</p><p> </p><p>Regardless, I would treasure that Miranda had chosen to bestow such a remarkable garment on me.</p><p> </p><p>It was truly striking- a trumpet gown that had the hint of a mermaid fit, with a neckline that dipped just a bit too low to be considered a sweetheart.  The swell of my cleavage was clearly visible, but I didn’t look like I was falling out of it. It was a perfect, snug fit that smoothed and enhanced by curves without making it difficult to breathe. I had never seen myself looking this stunning in my entire life.</p><p> </p><p>Before I knew what was happening, I was breaking out into a wide grin, feeling very much like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda had outdone herself. I was stunned. There was no way I wouldn’t draw spectators of my own tonight, and I didn’t know quite what to make of that. How would I handle being the center of attention? I wasn’t so arrogant to think I would make that much of a spectacle on my own, but beside Miranda? The Editor-in-Chief of Runway? There was no doubt my picture would end up on at least a few fashion blogs, and that thought tickled me more than I expected that it would.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t as if I was excited to suddenly be a part of the fashion world- just <em>Miranda’s </em>world. The idea of having photos show up online with me at her side? Heavenly.</p><p> </p><p>Nevertheless, I needed to shake myself out of my daydream and finish getting ready. Checking my phone quickly, I discovered I only had five minutes before I would need to be outside Miranda’s suite. I took one last view of myself in the mirror and smiled as I swiped the appropriate shade of red over my lips.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Makeup? </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Check. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Hair? </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Check.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> Phone? </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Check.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> Shoes?</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Gorgeous, and check. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>And there it was- completion. I was ready for whatever Miranda had in store for me. An offering in red. A gift for our queen.</p><p> </p><p>Ready to be unwrapped.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Stop it, Andy.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>With one last check to make sure I wasn’t leaving my head (or worse) somewhere in the room, I took a steadying breath and walked out the door.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>You can do this, Andy. It’s just one evening. It’s just a little evening beside your boss who is beautiful and charming and enigmatic and extremely hard to please. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>You’ll be fine.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>My feet were already hurting in these shoes. I had been standing outside Miranda’s room for approximately three minutes, waiting for her to make an appearance. She had been very vague with her order to be there sometime before seven so that she could accessorize me. I still didn’t quite know what that would entail. Just a minute prior her team had exited (yes, Miranda had a <em>team </em>fix her up for evenings such as these) and so I didn’t expect that they would be involved in my preparation. Was Miranda going to put my jewelry on herself?</p><p> </p><p>I gulped, imagining her hands descending slowly around my neck, and I shuddered with something lingering between fear and arousal.</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, I wished I had imbibed before exiting my room. I could use the comforting buzz of champagne right about now to calm my nerves. Hell, I’d take a cigarette at this point, but even that wouldn’t fully assuage this new tension. I honestly wasn’t sure if I could survive actual physical contact with Miranda Priestly.</p><p> </p><p>Could anyone?</p><p> </p><p>Her husbands certainly didn’t seem to last long. Maybe there was something so powerful about being touched by such a woman that it rendered the recipient unable to fully function. It seemed probable at the very least- as attracted as I now realized I was to Miranda, I still couldn’t imagine actually getting to touch her, or be touched by her. That remained the ultimate privilege in my book, and I couldn’t believe that two men had now willingly given up such license. She could be difficult for sure, but god, touching her would be worth every second of what I had endured over the past year. There was no way she was worse on her husbands than she had been on me, right? They probably just couldn’t handle being with a woman who was so much stronger and more accomplished than they. I could handle it, even if I knew I’d never get the opportunity. I could handle anything for Miranda.</p><p> </p><p> I knew that now- even this godforsaken evening of beautiful dreams and nightmares.</p><p> </p><p>At once I was excited and terrified: excited that I would have the opportunity to be so close to Miranda, especially in the role that I would be in, but terrified that I would find some way to fuck it up. It was a long way to fall from the side of Miranda’s pedestal. I had witnessed it happen to others after they found themselves falling out of her favor, and it was always worse when they had been there longer. A brand new clacker might turn out to be a bad fit and Miranda would have her escorted out by security, but she didn’t waste her time ruining the lives of nobodies. If someone like Nigel crossed her, however? They would be lucky to escape evisceration.</p><p> </p><p>I supposed my newfound clout would come with its own downsides, but I was fairly confident that I knew how to behave around Miranda without making a fool of myself. It was just scary to think about, kind of like being at the top of the Empire State Building. You knew it was highly unlikely that you would fall- but if you <em>did</em>, well, there would be no coming back from that.</p><p> </p><p>I didn’t want to fall. Well, I had already fallen- for Miranda. There could be no more falling from me.</p><p> </p><p>Her door clicked.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Speak of the devil and she appears.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Wowza.</p><p> </p><p>I wasn’t prepared for that.</p><p> </p><p>It was undoubtedly Valentino- that much I could tell from the color. It was clearly from the same collection as mine. That shade- the exact same shade that was currently draped across my own body. That beautiful, rich blood red.</p><p> </p><p>I tried not to stare, but <em>damn. </em></p><p> </p><p>Our gowns weren’t the same. They were complimentary- a pair, but slightly different. Like eyebrows. Sisters but not twins. Where mine cut low in the front, Miranda’s dipped low in the back.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, her back. A wide breadth of exquisite, ivory skin on exhibit for all. The meaning was the same in my dress- to tease, seduce, draw attention. Miranda wasn’t trying to hide tonight- she wasn’t trying to sulk behind me and let me take up the room. She was there to show Stephen what he was missing.</p><p> </p><p>I had seen Miranda in a bevy of gowns before- all beautiful, all perfect for her. But this dress? It was special. It was a giant middle finger to her soon to be ex-husband. I had never seen Miranda in something so, well, <em>sultry. </em>She always looked amazing, and what she wore was always art- but it wasn’t the gown that was on display this evening- it was Miranda.</p><p> </p><p>Then, she cleared her throat, and my eyes snapped back up to her face for the first time since she’d opened the door.</p><p> </p><p>There was that perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised yet again on my behalf.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Shit, Andy.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I really needed to learn to stop staring at her.</p><p> </p><p>Smiling gently, I tried to save the moment.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, Miranda, you just look really nice.”</p><p> </p><p>Nice? Miranda looked <em>nice</em>? Jesus, I needed to improve my vocabulary if I was going to be spending more time with her. I half expected her to roll her eyes at me, but she didn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, she surprised me.</p><p> </p><p>Really shocked me.</p><p> </p><p>Like, I almost peed myself.</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Andrea. I’m rather glad I went with the Valentino. That gown certainly enhances your shape, don’t you think?”</p><p> </p><p>She rolled the words around her lips like one might taste a fine wine. They were spoken almost casually-but there was something more in the tone beneath her soft inflections of the last few words.</p><p> </p><p>If I had wings, I would have flown around the room. For a brief second, all I could do was blink back at her and nod in the affirmative.</p><p> </p><p>I couldn’t believe she had thanked me, and then commented on my shape. My <em>shape. </em>I had to have turned the color of my dress.</p><p>My god, I was dead.</p><p> </p><p>But then, Miranda raised me from the dead only to turn around and plant me back six feet underground.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda Priestly didn’t make a mess when she murdered, though. No, it was always a clean kill. She wouldn’t be caught dead making a scene or being accused of histrionics. She would always be the calm and composed one. The one who made others tremor while she stood regal and unruffled, unshaken by the carnage around her- the carnage that she, in fact, wrought.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t anything dramatic, but it was deadly, nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>One vicious, yet playful, upturned corner of the mouth.</p><p> </p><p>A smirk.</p><p> </p><p>Well, not just a smirk: A devilish smirk, a coy smirk that very well might have said <em>Oh, look at you. You’re smitten with me, and I’m in on your secret.</em></p><p> </p><p>It was a smirk that stopped me dead in my tracks.</p><p> </p><p>She was smirking at me, and looking me dead in the eyes as if challenging me, her left eyebrow floating somewhere in the upper atmosphere.</p><p> </p><p>I must have looked like a deer in headlights.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda looked like she was going to devour me whole.</p><p> </p><p>I think I would have let her.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you prefer to wear diamonds or pearls?”</p><p> </p><p>This was a really bad time for my brain to short-circuit.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Focus, Andy. Do your goddamn job.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>I realized then that she was holding jewelry in her palms:  Pearls in one hand, diamonds in the other.</p><p> </p><p>I also realized that both of our necks were bare. One was for me, the other for her- but she was letting me choose.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda didn’t let other people choose for her. Maybe, on occasion, if there was some minor decision that had to be made and she was completely unavailable or the task was so mundane that she simply couldn’t be <em>bothered…</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>But never something important- never something that would grace her actual body.</p><p> </p><p>Was she just asking for the sake of it? Would she ultimately go with whatever she decided on herself in the end?</p><p> </p><p>Was she actually asking me to choose what she would wear tonight?</p><p> </p><p> Or was I simply reading too much into this?</p><p> </p><p>“They’re both beautiful, Miranda. But, um, I like the pearls for myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Her smirk had descended into as gentle a smile as could be expected for Miranda Priestly on an occasion such as this, and so I thanked my lucky stars and supposed that I had made the correct choice.</p><p> </p><p>That is where the conversation would have ended if I were a sane person.</p><p> </p><p>However, I, Andy Sachs, am apparently anything but, and I also apparently take pleasure in speaking too much and putting my own foot directly into my mouth.</p><p> </p><p>It had been a problem since childhood, and it was a massive oversight of the universe that it hadn’t impeded my job thus far.</p><p> </p><p>Part of it was that Miranda appreciated my boldness, or so I liked to think.</p><p> </p><p>But this was beyond bold. This was extra bold. This was bordering on flirtation bold.</p><p> </p><p>“Besides, diamonds bring out the blue in your eyes.”</p><p> </p><p>Yes, a major case of foot-in-mouth disease.</p><p> </p><p>Admit one, Andy Sachs, for immediate treatment.</p><p> </p><p>Strap me to the gurney and wheel me in, because I certainly wasn’t walking after this nearly life-ending faux pas.</p><p> </p><p>Could the world please open up a Hellmouth in front of me and swallow me whole? I would very much appreciate it.</p><p> </p><p>I half expected her to say something clipped and short back at me- something to put me back into my place as her assistant, someone who didn’t dare say such things to Miranda- especially considering I had just been gaping at her for the better part of the last ten minutes.</p><p> </p><p>Except, no.</p><p> </p><p>She wasn’t doing anything.</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t react at all.</p><p> </p><p>Miranda acted as if the words I had spoken were completely normal words to speak. If she had had any misgivings about my statement, she hid them, and instead passed me the set of pearls.</p><p> </p><p>Our hands almost brushed and I caught myself holding my breath.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully she wasn’t looking at me anymore, and was instead busying herself with placing the diamonds around her elegant neck and on each ear. I followed suite with my own.</p><p> </p><p>The setting was oddly intimate; standing here like this in the hallway of a hotel room in Paris with Miranda Priestly, putting on earrings.</p><p> </p><p>It was almost like we were girlfriends.</p><p> </p><p>Not <em>girlfriends.</em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Just “girlfriends.” The annoying version of the word that my lesbian roommate at Northwestern had told me was appropriative and damaging.</p><p> </p><p>She had a point.</p><p> </p><p>I wondered what she was doing these days. I could use some advice.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Snap out of it, Andy.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Miranda was checking herself one last time in the hallway mirror, something that I had never seen her do before in my life.</p><p> </p><p>The woman was full of surprises, alright.</p><p> </p><p>“Coming, Andrea?”</p><p> </p><p>She stalked off toward the elevator without a glance behind her, and I glided behind as gracefully and quickly as I could in four inch stilettos.</p><p> </p><p>I did allow myself the discrete pleasure of checking out her ass in that dress, however.</p><p> </p><p>I was <em>not </em>disappointed.</p><p> </p><p>Oof. This woman might be the end of me.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Apologies for the late posting this eve- it's my birthday and I also had to work so I've been busy busy busy. I'm already working on the next chapter, and it will be out within the next day or two. Thank you all so much for your continued kudos, bookmarks, comments, etc. I appreciate everything and please continue to give me feedback so that I can improve this story and even potentially incorporate things that readers want to see. &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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